Change is visible; it’s in the air
my breath like steam from winter soup.
Along its length, the glasshouse draws in
tender émigrés of flower and fern
and outside, patterns cut with ice
Sequence of season determined in the heavens
and fast by the heavens, that great hunter
resting, at the midnight hour.
Another countdown round’s begun.
Adventitious, box by box,
days ticked off, December ticking by.
Near the end, the neonate
heralded again as Eastern megastar
and we toss tinsel into Yule. How faux!
A Saviour is man for all seasons
as water from the Spring
the searing sword of solstice
a magnitude of Autumn tempest
stiller still than winter.
Now is just the coming of the Yew
our churchyard shade where blackbirds sup
fleshed berries, pipped with poison.
So let us deck the walls with feathered fir
that old death spell of evergreen
where roses bloom in sprigs of our imagining.
Whilst this, our Northern landscape
picked clean as turkey bones
gives space to all our resolutions.